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Monday, December 15, 2014

Wash Line Monday!

Our Monday meme shines a light on apparel. From Regency to Steampunk, and everything in between, we dress our characters to reflect the story we want to tell.

In comments, and in 300 words or less, give us a snippet from your novel that describes what your heroes, heroines, or bit players are wearing. Don't forget your buy link and website/blog link. Have fun!

3 comments:

This excerpt is from my newly released novel, The Trouble With Dying - chick lit suspense with plenty of sizzle.

(Pssst! And it's discounted to 99c until Friday!)

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“Terracotta?” The words carry easily through the wall. “But, Geoff, that’s so last century.”

I jerk awake, disoriented.

A murmured response, then the woman’s voice again. “Well, of course. But Faith wouldn’t want you living in limbo, either.”

I glance around and it all comes flooding back. Me, up here, living in limbo. Me, down there, trapped in the bed.

Me. Whoever the hell Me is.

Early-morning tentacles of light reach for the walls. I must have fallen asleep. Strange. I didn’t realise ghosts slept.

“You’re not a ghost,” chimes in Gran, and I leap in alarm.

“Stop doing that.”

“What? Listening to your thoughts? How else do you expect us to help out on the Earth plane?”

“No, not that,” I say, though it is a bit unsettling. I mean, she could be reading every thought I have. Every last, private one . . . and the less I think about that the better.

“I mean, you need to stop scaring me like that.”

“Sorry.” Her eyes twinkle. “You’ll get used to it. Now, what’s going on?”

I follow her gaze. My husband has arrived, this time with a tall, chic redhead. The stilettos I heard are actually knee-high tan suede boots, and matched with that cream ensemble of thigh-length, figure-hugging dress and full, oversized coat, she looks like she’s just stepped off a catwalk.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s stunning. But why would she wear an outfit like that—something better suited to a flashy restaurant—to a hospital?

“Who’s the woman?” I ask, but Gran doesn’t answer. She must be really spooked by this Death Council thingie.

The redhead stands over Faith-in-the-bed, eyes closed. A tear escapes, trickling down her cheek. She dabs it away.

Kneeling by the stone, Will pressed his lips against it. The taste of cold granite brought the pain back anew. All he had left of her now was Amanda. Their stillborn son rested by Anne’s side.

He left the small, church cemetery and strolled home as his thoughts filled with Anne and Mrs. O’Connell. Each woman was so different. Anne had been refined and well-mannered. He hardly recalled a complaint coming from her lips. She’d been the perfect wife, mother, and hostess.

Mrs. O’Connell, on the other hand, could be bold and sometimes brash. She often asked direct questions of a personal nature, causing his father’s eyebrows to rise and his mother to shake her head. She was curious about everything, and he’d often catch her scribbling in a journal Jenny had given her to pass the time.

He found her unpredictable, but at the same time, she intrigued him. Anne had been gone two and a half years. And Mrs. O’Connell was a lovely distraction. He caught the glances Jenny gave the two of them. She, no doubt, had matchmaking on her mind.

When he arrived home and entered the parlor, the scent of fresh pine and wood burning in the fireplace greeted him.

Jenny, wearing a forest green frock, stood by the tree lighting candles set in the branches. She wore her hair in a braided ring around her head with a black ribbon hairnet for adornment.

“Lighting the candles so early?” he asked.

She gasped and turned to face him. “You scared me, Will. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He grinned and slid onto the settee.

Her hoop-lined skirt spun about as she turned her attention back to the tree set atop a side table.

Her lips turned up into a smile when she remembered a couple items that had caught her eye when she’d stood around trying to look invisible while waiting to pay for the thongs. She knew from the crusty look she’d received that the clerk believed she was in the wrong store. Evie squared her shoulders. She’d get more than a little kick out of going back to buy that wisp of a black sheath dress, and maybe she’d check out the skirts and sweaters. She glanced down at her newly trimmed and painted toes. Yes, she’d definitely have to get some open-toed shoes, too. She’d never owned a pair other than flip flops. She laughed aloud as this new persona seemed to be claiming her body. Had it simply been waiting for her to get a makeover? To top things off—or to bottom things off, she snickered to herself—she’d wear one of the thongs. Her brow furrowed. Sunday: No Rest for the Wicked. She grinned at the mirror, suddenly feeling wicked—very wicked.